"Office door to the right, sir," he directed, briefly, but respectfully. "Boy there will take in your card, sir."
"I understand chauffeurs are wanted here," said the visitor, his composed gaze dwelling on a poster to that effect affixed to the nearest wall.
The gate-keeper stared.
"I guess so——?"
"Is the office the place where I should apply for such work?"
"Trucking department; turn left, down basement, Mr. Ransome," vouchsafed the chagrined concierge, severely wounded in his self-esteem. So blatant a mistake had not offended his pride in years. He turned in his seat and craned his thin neck to watch the stranger swing blithely away in the direction indicated.
"Chauffeur!" he muttered. "Walks as if Adriance's was his private garage an' he was buildin' himself a better one around the corner! Hope Ransome throws him out!"
But Ransome of the motor-trucks was in urgent need of men and disposed to be more tolerant. Moreover, his sensitive vanity had taken no hurt that morning. But he looked rather closely at the applicant, nevertheless.
"Used to chauffing private cars, aren't you?" he shrewdly questioned.
"Yes," admitted Adriance.